


As the World Falls Down

by janusjekyll



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angel Shane Madej, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Demon Shane Madej, Human Ryan Bergara, I don't even know what this is and I'm the one who wrote it, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mythology References, One Shot, it's up to your interpretation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janusjekyll/pseuds/janusjekyll
Summary: “But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before.” -Edgar Allan Poe, “The Masque of the Red Death”The Masquerade AU that no one asked for.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	As the World Falls Down

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is basically a love song to every book, movie, tv show, or musical I've ever seen with a masquerade in it. There's just something about the aesthetic. I've referenced a couple of them within aspects of this work.  
> The entire plot for this fic randomly entered my head one day, all at once, and refused to leave. I don't even know if there's anyone besides me who would enjoy this.

It was the season for masquerades, the time of year when the darkness begins ebbing away with the first warmth of the coming spring, when almost nightly the gilded hall was bedecked in the golden light of candelabras. It was the time for elaborate feasts, for the most affluent and prominent families to gather together in their brocaded finery for the manner of mindless celebration that can only accompany the most careless kind of wealth.

In years past, the young prince would be out on the polished rose-tinted floor, delighting in the creatures that crossed his path and perhaps pursuing a flash of some brilliant hue among the twirling dancers. The guests were nearly always the same, but the crowd of bejeweled masks shifted from night to night, and each day the prince would wear a different face and wonder at who might be beneath the one staring him back.

He remembered the days that the masks used to scare him, when the usual company of laughing adults would be suddenly transformed into a menagerie of ghouls and goblins. Even now, his imagination would always paint the scene as a gathering of otherworldly creatures he had the privilege of sharing the earthly plane with for the night, but now the terror was replaced by a thrill at the thought that nearly anything could hide among the mask wearers.

Tonight, however, he stood apart from the glimmer of brilliant gowns and embroidered suits as they spun around in the familiar waltzes. His gaze flicked quickly between porcelain, feathered, beaded, and painted masks as they whizzed by, then back to the far wall, where the shadowed doorway stood just as vacant as the moment before.

“Still chasing after specters, I see,” remarked a voice from behind him, and he startled. The crystal glass that he had been holding fell to the floor and shattered, fortunately empty.

“He’s not a ghost, Father,” the prince insisted, trying to sweep the glass into a pile with his foot. His father led him away from the mess, gesturing for a servant to take care of it.

“And when will we meet this mysterious stranger?” The corners of the older man’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Soon after I meet him myself, I hope,” he replied absentmindedly, having already returned to scanning the crowd.

“And you’re sure you’re feeling well again?” his father pressed.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he brushed him off. In truth, his head still hurt and everything felt a little hazy, the lights too bright, the music too loud. He refused to miss the masquerade, however. Every night, without fail, the scarlet-clad figure had appeared, and tonight he was determined to finally confront him.

His father shook his head. “Ryan. If you’re truly well, it pains me to see you not enjoying yourself. Won’t you come join the party? Please, for my sake.”

Ryan offered him a smile that didn’t quite reach his distracted eyes and took his father’s offered arm, ignoring how the world seemed to shift as he walked. He accepted an invite to dance from a bright azure peacock, which earned an approving nod from his watching father. As his practiced steps adjusted in time with the music, he never once met the eyes of his partner, always gazing beyond to that darkened corner of the room. Out on the dance floor, he didn’t have as good of a vantage point, but he did have the advantage of being closer to the action. He examined each costume as it whirled by, his eyes caught by every hint of red in his peripheral vision. Soon, however, the room became a blur as everything spun around him like the interwoven gears of a clock, and his head continued to throb in a steady pulse. The seconds slowly melted into minutes, but to him they seemed like eons. 

Finally, the song was over and the dancers drew apart. Ryan breached the boundary of the dance floor like a man who, after plunging into the sea, finally breaks the surface. The clock began chiming in time with his frantic breaths, and when he finally looked up, there he was.

The tall, thin stranger stood apart from the crowd, halfway in the shadows. The flickering light of the candelabras made the gold embellishments of his costume sparkle, but his face was still cast in darkness. The eyeholes of his ivory skull-like mask were two dark voids. His suit was a deep, blood red with a high collar and a scarlet cape, while around his neck was an ebony cravat. Not a single person turned to acknowledge his presence.

Even across the room, he knew the stranger was staring directly at him. Ryan tried to make his way through the crowd, but at that moment the chimes of the clock faded away and the orchestra resumed, the dancers taking their positions once again.

Ryan was swept up in the tide of the dance as he tried to make his way across the hall, the leering faces of painted masks crossing his vision at every turn. He craned his neck around every interruption, desperate to keep the stranger in sight at all times. However, by the time he left the crowd behind, the corner was vacant.

He blinked back his frustration. He knew it was no apparition, the image of the stranger had been as clear as day. He was about to give up and return to his room, already preparing his excuses to his parents, when a flash of red appeared in the corner of his eye. He turned, and there the stranger was, standing calmly among the dancers like the eye of the storm.

Ryan moved slowly towards him. The other guests seemed to part around him as he moved forward, leaving a clear path between him and the stranger. This was it. He would finally receive an explanation for the vision that had been haunting him in the past weeks.

When he was only a short distance away, the stranger suddenly turned. “Wait!” Ryan cried, and stumbled forward, only managing to grab the hand of the retreating figure. The stranger pulled back, and Ryan was left holding only a single, black leather glove as he watched the other man disappear into the crowd. The dancing resumed once more, and no matter how quickly Ryan wove through the rustling sea of ballgowns he was unable to catch sight of the stranger again.

He stared down at the glove he held in his hand, rubbing the fabric with his thumb. Physical, tangible proof that he wasn’t going mad. The stranger was real. The stranger could be caught. Tomorrow, if he was quicker, Ryan could finally learn who he was.

Suddenly he staggered, the heat and the noise of the room returning to his senses at full force. The period of frenzied movement during his attempt to confront the stranger had left him light-headed. As he swayed, he dimly saw the outlines of his parents rush to his side.

“He’s burning up,” came his mother’s anxious voice, sounding as though it was underwater.

“Bring him back to his room, and make sure he stays there until the fever is broken,” his father ordered. “These dances will be the death of him,” he muttered as an afterthought.

Even while fighting unconsciousness, Ryan gripped the glove tightly, desperate not to lose his single clue to the stranger’s identity.

He woke up the next morning to bright sunlight streaming through the open windows of his bedroom. The events of the previous night tumbled slowly into his mind like pebbles down a stream as he sat up. He looked down in a sudden panic, and there, crumpled in his fist, was the black leather glove.

It hadn’t been a dream. 

He sighed deeply. His head might still feel like it was being used as an anvil, but for once his thoughts were at peace. He laid back down, holding the glove above him as he examined it closely. The sense of calm lasted for a full hour before his thoughts began to race again.

He needed to attend the party tonight.

He knew it would be difficult to persuade his parents that he was well enough to go. He hadn’t been able to shake the fever and headaches for several weeks; in fact, they only seemed to get worse. After last night’s collapse, he knew that his parents were more worried than ever. If they saw him at the ball, they would immediately send him back to his room.

However, it was a _masquerade_ , a dance designed for disguises.

He braced himself before getting out of bed, the world immediately tilting around him as black crowded the edges of his vision. He leaned against the bedpost until it stopped, then made his way over to his armoire.

He would need to alter one of his old costumes in some way, so that no one would recognize it. But how? He didn’t know how to sew, and the last thing he needed was to get the servants involved...

A loud thunk and a harsh squawk from behind him startled Ryan, and he quickly turned towards the window. He was just in time to see a dark form fall past the glass. He rushed to the sill. A fluff of black feather was stuck to the pane. Below him, on the ground, was the twisted, still form of a crow, its wings splayed at an unnatural angle.

He peeled the feather off of the window, suddenly struck with an idea.

By nightfall, it was ready. As the sky softened into twilight, Ryan inspected his creation in the deep red glow of the fading sunset.

He had covered the shoulders of a black cloak in a variety of feathers pulled from various old costumes and masks of his. At first they had formed a gaudy multi-colored array that brought to mind an old fable about the jackdaw, so Ryan decided to spread the same black sealing wax that had been used to affix the feathers to the fabric in the first place over the top. 

This had turned out to be a more difficult task than he had anticipated, and the resulting uneven layer of dripping wax resembled melting candles. He decided to pretend it was an artistic choice.

The rest of his outfit was chosen to try to avoid drawing attention to himself, to lessen the chance someone would recognize him. He picked out the plainest black suit he had, which unfortunately still sparkled in the candlelight from its elaborate silver trim. The mask he chose was edged in black feathers, with a pointed beak. He hadn’t altered it in any way, but it had been years since he last wore it. He hoped it wasn’t memorable.

He slipped the stranger’s glove in his pocket after putting on his costume, then checked his appearance in the mirror before exiting the room. The hood of the cloak almost fully shadowed his face, he noticed to his satisfaction. After slowly creaking open the door to his chambers, he slipped through the hallways like a shadow. The passages were deserted, as nearly all of the occupants of the palace were focusing their attentions on the masquerade, but he still glanced behind his shoulder with alert eyes at every corner and intersection.

He was finally able to breathe easier when he crept out of a side hallway and smoothly blended in with the stream of guests entering the ballroom. No one questioned him, no one stopped him, no one even tried to talk to him.

He knew that his usual strategy of standing off to the side and watching would instantly make him look suspicious. The thought of dancing made his aching head spin, but it was unfortunately necessary.

Several hours passed in an endless cycle of music and whirling, glittering colors and rustling skirts, and half-forgotten faces passing by in hazy blurs, interspersed with breaks to lean on a pillar until the ground stopped tilting beneath him. His feet were about to drop off from exhaustion when a flash of red caught his eye.

There, across the room, the familiar frame of the figure that had haunted him for weeks weaved in and out of the dancers. 

Ryan moved towards him like he was in a trance. All sounds seemed muted, the low murmur of conversation like the crashing waves of a distant sea, the music like a drawn-out hum. Dimly he heard the clock chime, once, twice, three times before he had closed the distance between them.

For once, the stranger made no attempt to leave. Ryan held his breath as he approached, as if stirring the air would cause the other man to dissipate like smoke. 

The figure didn’t move, didn’t turn, didn’t run. The eyeholes of his mask were still two black pits. He hadn’t realized how much taller the stranger was compared to him until now.

Ryan swallowed, suddenly nervous. He pulled the glove out of his pocket. “I… I believe you dropped this last night.” What was he doing? “I mean, not dropped, but…” He cleared his throat, his royal training kicking in. “What I meant to say is, I apologize that I could not find you to return your lost article last night.” He dipped his head, proffering the glove.

The stranger reached out and took it from him with a gloved hand, the other hidden beneath his cape. He turned away. “You came.” It was a statement, but buried within it was a question. He turned back around, two gloved hands now clasped in front of him.

“I’ve seen you watching me,” Ryan brought up, ignoring the question and unsure of what else to say.

The corner of the other man’s mouth turned up. “I won’t deny it.”

“Then why do you always run away before I can talk to you?” Ryan demanded, a bit harsher than he intended.

The stranger rubbed the back of his neck, face tilted towards the floor. If Ryan didn’t know better, he would say he looked… embarrassed. “Perhaps I’ve been trying to put off this meeting as desperately as you have been searching for it.”

The clock had chimed seven times now, each tone stretching out into what felt like an eternity.

“Why? Who are you?” Ryan asked. Quieter, almost to himself, he continued, “Do I know you?”

“Why, Ryan, this is a masquerade,” the stranger tsked. “You know better than to ask what’s beneath one’s mask.” He winked, and suddenly Ryan realized that the darkness covering the stranger’s eyes wasn’t from shadows after all. He felt that this knowledge should scare him, but it didn’t.

“I can’t even have your name?” Ryan insisted. Distantly he realized that he hadn’t ever told the stranger his own.

“That you are free to. Shane,” the figure said with a slight bow, and the syllable cut through the air like cracking glass.

The orchestra was silent, waiting for the clock to finish chiming. Eight, nine times. The dancers around them were still.

“May I have this dance?” Ryan requested, offering a hand, and to his surprise Shane took it. There was still no music, only the lingering hum of the latest chime of the clock. Now that they were closer, Ryan looked up at the masked face of his dance partner. His initial impression of Shane’s eyes was wrong. They weren’t completely black. The more he stared, the more he realized that buried beneath their surface were galaxies, stars and planets, the whirling primordial heavens.

His headache was gone. He hadn’t noticed it leave. However, the hazy sense of detachment was still present, all sounds and feelings echoing through the corridors of his mind before reaching his consciousness.

“Who are you?” he asked again, as they spun their way through the motionless crowd.

“Oh, Ryan, I think you know,” Shane replied gently. The clock chimed once more, the sound stretching out into a fleeting eternity.

The colors of the costumes around them began to fade to greys and blacks. The candles wore down to stubs, the wax dripping into clear pools beneath the golden arms of the candelabras. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw the other party guests dissolving, decaying into bleached white bones. For a moment he was surrounded by a forest of skeletons, before they crumbled into a glittering stardust. 

Still, he danced with Shane, gloved fingers intertwined, still studying those endless black eyes. The air shimmered with the fading echo of the tones of the clock, still with anticipation.

The hall crumbled around them, the ceiling splintering like a shattered mirror and vanishing into open sky. The liquid floor of melted wax reflected the rings of light made by the whirling stars. Somewhere along the line, the two dancers had halted in place, but the world still spun around them. The moon floated behind Shane’s head like a glowing halo.

The clock, still perched on the mantle of the fireplace, chimed again, the sound distorted and strange. Was that the twelfth chime? The hands were gone.

“Are you ready?” Shane asked quietly, squeezing Ryan’s hand.

_No_ , Ryan thought, but he nodded his head.

Shane let go of Ryan, and slowly took off one of his gloves, revealing skeletal fingers. He reached out with an uncovered hand and caressed the side of Ryan’s face. His touch was as cold as, well, death. He smiled down at Ryan. “Thanks for the dance.”

The end of his words was drowned out by the distant chime of a clock as Ryan’s world faded to white.

**Author's Note:**

> If you were reading this for English class, you would probably wonder how much of it actually happened and how much of it was just metaphorical. Since this is a fanfiction, you can just assume it's as literal as you want it to be.


End file.
